


tell me now and i won't ask again

by outofcases (hockeycaptains)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Clubbing, Crying, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Marriage Proposal, OT5 Friendship, Pining, Singing in Diners, Slow Burn, Soppy vows that will hopefully make you emotional, Weddings, Zayn-centric, i can confirm that there is quite a bit of crying for such a sappy fic, lots of sitting under stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3887212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeycaptains/pseuds/outofcases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You said you couldn’t live without me,” says Louis casually, eyes sparking a bit, and Zayn wants to tell him <i>don’t ruin the moment</i> but he can’t deny this boy anything.  “Didn’t think you cared so much, Zayner.”  He pretends to swoon, eyelashes fluttering ridiculously, and he’s messing around but it doesn’t make him any less lovely in the lamp light.  “You’ll give a girl the wrong idea, there.”</p><p>or</p><p>Louis and Zayn as best friends, boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me now and i won't ask again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PigSlay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PigSlay/gifts).



> You prompted me "Zayn/Louis wedding where the other boys are the groomsmen."
> 
> I gave you "Zayn/Louis love story told in moments over 6 and a half years"
> 
> I hope you still like it.
> 
> Big love to my betas, who are angels and made this fic so much better than it would've been without them.
> 
> The song in the diner scene and at the end is Willie Nelson's "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" Title comes from the same song. Have a listen, if you'd like. I think it would add to the reading experience.
> 
> Enjoy :)

_5 years before_

“Run!” yells Louis, careening around a corner and nearly skidding on the hotel carpet, “If you value your life, run!”

Zayn thinks that maybe he shouldn’t get involved in this, if only because he’s jet-lagged and there’s a show tonight and he was really hoping to get some sleep beforehand…, but then Louis is grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him along like Zayn is a sure thing and, well, when it comes to Louis, Zayn kind of is. So he runs.

“What did you do?” he asks, half breathless, as they stumble down a stairwell and nearly trip over each other.

Louis chances a glance over his shoulder. “Hat,” he pants, “glue,” and Zayn raises his eyebrows, “Liam,” and _wow_ , okay. And then he imagines what must have actually happened, and he’s laughing so hard he can barely see straight. Louis makes an impatient noise and keeps tugging him along, but he’s laughing, too, trying but failing miserably to keep a straight face.

Footsteps thunder behind them, and Zayn realizes he has become an accessory to the crime just by sticking around. He makes a split-second decision and veers to the right, pulling Louis with him. He doesn’t explain before unceremoniously flinging the both of them into what looks and smells like a maintenance closet and slamming the door shut. He hears Louis fumbling around – for a light switch, probably; it really is dark in there.

Zayn backs up and bumps right into a shelf, hissing.

A beat of silence, and then: “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” answers Zayn, whispering back. Louis isn’t holding his wrist anymore. “Just, it’s more cramped than I thought.”

Louis snickers, covering his mouth. “You’re the one that picked a storage closet, thanks.” 

Zayn splutters, trying to defend himself, but Louis is still laughing and it doesn’t seem mean-spirited so they both let it slide until they’re mostly settled into the silence. 

The light is still off. Louis has stopped looking for it.

“Liam is gonna kill you,” remarks Zayn, mostly just for something to say. 

Louis shrugs, unbothered, and Zayn can feel the heat of him where they’re all but pressed together. He doesn’t know how long the two of them will be trapped in here, but he’s known Louis for two years now, going on three, and there isn’t anyone he’d rather be in such a ridiculous position with, silly as it sounds. 

At the same time, though, the proximity is a bit much. It feels different than the way it does when they’re piled onto a couch or even cuddling in a bunk, almost claustrophobic. Zayn’s disposition is generally about as easygoing as they come, but even he can feel himself tensing up the longer they hide, nerve endings firing, anxiety creeping up the back of his throat and leaving him wired.

“You alright?” asks Louis, even though it’s pitch dark and there’s no way he can see Zayn beyond the shadowy blur of his body.

“Never better." Zayn’s attempt at casual falls more than a little flat, accent thickening the way it does when he’s feeling a bit manic. 

Louis hums and presses in closer to Zayn, reaching out blindly for his hand and catching his wrist, instead (or maybe he was looking for the wrist all along – who knows what goes on in Louis’ head). “Hey,” he pushes, and Zayn shuts his eyes even though it changes nothing, “really, you okay? What’s going on?”

Zayn fights down a wounded noise, tries not to think too much about the fact that he has no idea why he’s feeling the way he is. “Said m’fine, didn’t I?”

It’s as good a deflection as he can manage at the moment, and Louis leaves him be for a split second before opening the door a crack. The light is startling, and Zayn blinks repeatedly until he can see properly. Louis’ face is illuminated, cheekbones sketched with a slight blush – probably from the heat of the confined space; Zayn is pulling at his own collar to cool himself down. “Looks clear,” whispers Louis loudly.

Zayn sighs, relieved. “Let’s go, then, before Liam comes back and kills us both.”

They step out into the hallway together, and Louis lets go of Zayn’s wrist. Zayn feels momentarily cold, and then shakes it off, fumbles at his clothes and sees Louis doing the same. In another light, this could be something entirely different, stumbling out of a dark, cramped closet all rumpled and warm, but-

That’s ridiculous. Zayn chokes on a laugh, ignores how hysterical he feels just from all of that proximity, blood rushing up to heat his cheeks. “I’m going to my room,” he says, and Louis looks up sharply and nods.

“Thanks for the help,” he answers, and Zayn didn’t do anything, but he just shrugs and more or less bolts out of there.

He can’t explain the jitter in his hands any more than he can explain the need he feels to run as far as he can. Instead of doing that, though, he walks briskly to his room and fumbles with the key, finally managing it on the fourth try.

It’s a blessing when he makes it inside, and he slinks back to lean against the door, sinking to the ground and bumping his head back against the wood.

He releases a shaky breath. “Okay,” he says to himself, hands clasped together in front of him, “okay.” Zayn is at least glad he gets a little time to process it all, because he’s rubbish under pressure and even as he’s thinking about it his entire system is resettling itself into calm. It only takes two minutes more for the coil of his spine to loosen. He isn’t sure why, but this happens, on occasion, when he’s feeling particularly stressed. He doesn’t get snappish, like Louis; or overachieve, like Liam; or surround himself with as many people as possible the way Niall and Harry do. No, Zayn needs his space. 

It’s been the same ever since he was a kid, sneaking upstairs during family reunions just to get some room to breathe, or taking the long way to school in the mornings because it was peaceful and he never saw another soul. It’s not that Zayn doesn’t like people – he does, of course he does – but it can be a lot to take in, is all. Couple that with a job like his, and, well. It’s no surprise he’s holed up in his hotel room right now, and it’s no surprise that it helps.

By dinner, the tremor in his hands has dissipated entirely, and he chalks the whole mess up to the stress of tour and nothing more. 

(He shares a look with Louis when Liam complains loudly about his hats having been ruined. They both smother giggles, and any lingering awkwardness is long forgotten.)

…

_4 years, 6 months before_

“Zayn! Zayn! Come on, I’m not gonna wait here all day!”

Zayn creaks his eyes open, trying to figure out if he dreamed up that voice or not. It wouldn’t be surprising, he thinks groggily, and then shuts down the train of thought as cleanly as he can. He drags his hand across the night table, trying to locate his phone or a watch to check what time it is; the light is slanting through the window at a sharp angle that makes him think it must be early afternoon.

He mumbles a bit to himself, now trying to locate his glasses, when he hears a very distinct car horn sound. “Let’s go! Zayn!”

Right, so it wasn’t a dream, then.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he mumbles to no one in particular, darting around his room and throwing on some jeans a t-shirt, checking his hair in the mirror before running out the door.

“Well it’s about bloody time,” drawls Louis, lounging in a cherry red convertible parked in front of Zayn’s house. He looks half offended that it took Zayn so long, like he’s not the one that showed up unannounced and yelled his head off until Zayn came outside.

It’s a testament to their friendship that Zayn isn’t the least bit surprised to see him, forgoing a comment in favor of hopping into the passenger side and throwing on a pair of sunglasses. “Where to?” he asks, splaying one of his arms over the back of Louis’ seat.

Louis beams, lifting his arms up in the air. Zayn studiously does not look at the line of his shoulders, or the muscle in his biceps where he’s started bulking up the slightest bit. “Anywhere in the world, my dear Zayner!” shouts Louis, really getting into it. “The possibilities are endless!”

“Well,” says Zayn, dramatically, drawing out the word, “I haven’t eaten lunch.”

Louis throws his head back and laughs, starting the car.

…

Later, Zayn will mention it in an interview, just in passing, and Louis will give him a look that toes the line between fondness and something Zayn can’t read at all.

It isn’t the first time he’s gotten that look from Louis, and it won’t be the last, but that doesn’t make it any easier to handle. He doesn’t know what it means that it makes him want to shift in his seat, or duck into the bathroom just to get some breathing room. Liam throws an arm around his shoulder and Zayn tucks into his side gratefully, trying not to think about how mixed up he feels inside.

It will only get worse from there.

…

_4 years before_

“It’s this grungy little hole in the wall diner,” Louis is explaining, gesticulating wildly as he does, eyes bright and excited, “like, classic American, proper Southern. We have to go, c’mon.”

Zayn, unconvinced, shoots him a look. Louis is lounging on Zayn’s hotel bed, fiddling with something on his phone. He goes to argue out of habit, but realizes that he really isn’t opposed; and besides, he’s been cooped up in this room for most of the day – it wouldn’t kill him to get out, and hanging out with Louis is never boring. Sometimes it makes his heart race for reasons he’d rather not delve into too deeply, but it’s never boring.

“Yeah, okay,” answers Zayn, starting to dig through his suitcase with more purpose. It’s all an act, of course; they both know that in about five minutes he’s going to nick a shirt off of someone else, but he needs to at least pretend he packed enough clothes to last the week.

“There’s a car waiting, come on!” Louis is half bouncing on the bed. Zayn tries not to think about the implications of Louis calling ahead for a car before even asking Zayn if he wanted to come, because it hurts his head and he’s not sure he’d like the answer, anyway.

Zayn shrugs on his jacket and follows Louis out of the hotel and into the car. 

It only takes fifteen minutes to get to the diner, and Zayn is half asleep on Louis’ shoulder the entire time. That’s not an uncommon occurrence, but it always makes Zayn feel a little warmer; Louis is generally so bouncy and full of energy that the mere fact that he stays still for Zayn makes something soft twist up inside of his chest.

The diner itself is gaudy and bright, red and white check patterns covering every visible surface, and the booth cushions are made of sticky plastic. Louis is beaming while looking at the décor, and Zayn watches him and can’t fight his own smile.

“There’s a jukebox!” says Louis, bee-lining straight for it and pressing his hands up against the glass.

Zayn follows at a more sedate pace, which isn’t really a difficult feat considering his company, and rests his chin on Louis’ shoulder, watching him flick through the songs. “Pick something random,” Zayn says, offering it like a dare, and he feels more than sees Louis nod.

Louis fumbles in his pocket for some loose change and Zayn lets himself be jostled, steadying hands warm on Louis’ hips. “Gimme a number between one and, uh,” Louis leans in closer to the glass, hits a few buttons, “seventy-three.”

“Twenty,” says Zayn.

“Twenty it is.”

Louis puts the coins into the machine and presses a few buttons, and within seconds some lively guitar fills the room. Louis laughs, and Zayn groans a little bit. “This is so cheesy,” he complains, but Louis seems completely into it, swaying his hips and moving so much that Zayn has to take his chin off his shoulder, backing up and giving Louis a look that almost definitely falls into the judgmental camp.

“It’s a classic,” protests Louis, and then, horror of horrors, starts to sing along. “ _You give your love so sweetly_ ,” he croons, intentionally loud and out of tune, and then he does a twirl, segueing into a side shuffle.

“Louis,” warns Zayn, looking around to make sure people aren’t watching. People are definitely watching. Being best friends with Louis means that he’s getting to have a higher tolerance for embarrassment, but Louis is holding an imaginary microphone and pointing directly at Zayn, and he can feel his face starting to burn.

“ _The magic of your sights_ ,” and Louis is still singing, “ _Tonight with words unspoken, you said that I’m the only one. But will my heart be broken?_ ” he croons, and he’s probably about ten seconds from jumping on a table to continue his serenade. “Come on, Zayn!”

Zayn battles with himself for a moment, and then makes a huge show of rolling his eyes. “ _Sha la la_ ,” he sings reluctantly, “ _sha la la_ ,” and Louis’ laugh is bright and thrilled. Zayn doesn’t always play along, but when he does, Louis lights up. It’s maybe more than enough incentive.

By the end of it, Zayn has an imaginary microphone, too, and they finish the song together: “ _Will you still love me tomorrow?_ ”

The entire population of the diner (which, in reality, consists of just the waitresses and a group of girls trying to hide their giggles behind the laminated menus) claps, and Louis takes an elaborate bow while Zayn hides his face in his hands. “You’re the worst,” he mumbles.

“Another song?” asks Louis with a roguish grin, but Zayn shakes his head.

He grabs Louis by the hand and leads him back to their booth. “We’re going to eat,” he explains, “because I’m starving and I was promised greasy diner food, and then we’re going to go back to the hotel.”

Miraculously, Louis nods, cheeks still flushed happily from the impromptu performance. Zayn has to break eye contact before he says something reckless, like _I can’t imagine my life without you in it_ or _would it be weird if I told you you’re really beautiful?_ It definitely would be weird, so instead of saying something he’d regret he just shrugs off his jacket and sinks a little into the booth, picking up a menu to flick through.

And if he ends up agreeing to just split the monstrous, greasy burger with the ridiculous name that Louis (for some unfathomable reason) wants, then it’s because he’s a great friend, not because doesn’t have enough self-control to object.

Probably. It’s all still a bit mixed up in his head.

…

When they get back to the hotel, Louis mentions something about finding Liam and Niall, so Zayn makes his way to Harry’s room, not sure he wants to be alone quite yet with the way his traitor heart is still fluttering.

Harry, predictably, opens the door shirtless and proceeds to hug Zayn as if it’s been more than 24 hours since they last saw each other. Zayn just melts into it, suddenly exhausted. “Y’alright, mate?” asks Harry, voice rumbling low in his chest.

Zayn nods his head distractedly, stretching out his arms a bit as he extricates himself from Harry and walks into the room.

Harry follows, and the two of them end up splayed on the bed, limbs tangled gracelessly. It’s a little too warm but neither of them can be bothered to move, and Zayn just tips his head back against the soft hotel pillows. Harry brings a hand down to stroke through Zayn’s hair - he’s the only one that Zayn allows to do it because he’s the gentlest - and Zayn almost purrs, shutting his eyes.

Harry gives him about five minutes of blessed silence before speaking up. “Was it just you and Louis that went out earlier?” he asks. His hand stills, and Zayn nudges at it with his head until Harry starts again.

“Mhm,” he hums, half asleep.

“You two have been doing that a lot lately,” says Harry, and it isn’t phrased like a question but it still sounds like one. Zayn stiffens as Harry’s fingers continue gently scraping over his scalp.

He squirms a little on the bed, just enough that they aren’t touching anymore. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, and it wasn’t supposed to come out defensive but he feels a little silly anyway, like he’s bristling for no reason even though his skin feels too tight.

Harry brings a hand up to mess with his curls, a nervous habit that he never quite managed to shake. “Nothing,” he says, “just, you two have gotten really close.”

“We’re mates,” says Zayn, taking care to keep his voice steady.

“Well, yeah, ‘course you are, but you and I are mates, too, and you don’t see us spending every minute together, right?”

Harry’s tone is appeasing, but Zayn is nothing if not stubborn. “We’re together right now, aren’t we?”

He isn’t sure exactly why it’s so important that he prove this point, but he’d been under the impression that his feelings (whatever they are - it’s all a mess in his head) were at least subtle. Harry needling him like this is putting him on edge. He expects more argument, but Harry just sighs and curls a little closer. 

“It’s okay if there’s something else there,” he says carefully, and Zayn shuts his eyes, doesn’t want to be made to think about it.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits quietly, and it sits in the air. Zayn doesn’t like to do this, really, the seeking advice, the letting himself feel small in front of other people. It’s been a long time since he’s done it with anyone but Louis.

Harry reaches down and squeezes Zayn’s hand once, reassuring and warm. “It’ll be okay. Whatever happens, we’re here for you. You’ll be okay.”

And Zayn wants so badly to believe it that he leaves it there, nodding quietly into Harry’s shoulder and squeezing his hand back.

“Think I’m gonna nap,” Harry says, after one beat too many of silence, and to anyone else it would mean _you should leave so I can sleep_ , but not to Zayn, not after they’ve slept curled up together so many times that this bed is as good as Zayn’s, too.

Zayn hums and shifts a little until they’re comfortable, sides more or less pressed up against each other, and lets himself drift. It's a bit chilly in the room, but Harry bleeds heat.

Within a few minutes he’s practically out, mind wandering. He can’t help the curl of warmth in his chest when he thinks about his day, and before he can force himself to shut it down, he’s asleep.

…

_3 years, 6 months before_

It’s been a long week.

They’ve done no less than seven interviews just today, and they still have to finish this one, and it’s nice to be in London but the anonymous radio stations don’t feel any more like home than they would anywhere else. This is Zayn’s least favorite part of the job, getting asked the same questions over and over, pretending to be interested, smiling until his cheeks hurt so he doesn’t get chewed out for looking bored. And it’s not that he’s ungrateful, and it’s not that he doesn’t love what he’s doing, but it gets exhausting being called vain and mysterious when all he wants is to curl up in a hoodie and watch a film in his own bed for once.

It’s always worse when Louis’ not at 100%, too. All of the boys feel it, because when Louis walks into a room he immediately becomes the most interesting person; when he’s tired or a bit ill, it shows, and this day has dragged on all the more for it.

Harry is in the middle of what will probably turn out to be a vaguely irrelevant, long-winded answer when Zayn covers his mic and leans over to where Louis is standing next to him. “Alright?” he whispers, and Louis shoots him a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Just peachy, thanks,” he answers, but he makes no move to interrupt Harry, not even to step on his foot a bit to get him to wrap it up, and it’s just another bullet point on the list Zayn is compiling in his head of ‘proof that Louis is definitely not as peachy as he says he is.’

They’re in the middle of an interview, so Zayn can’t push it any more than that, but he does sneak an arm around Louis’ waist and rest his hand on Louis’ side, just above the band of his jeans. He flutters his fingers the tiniest bit, an _I’m here_ that doesn’t go unnoticed if the way Louis shifts into it is any indication. Still, there’s no response, so he curls an arm around Louis’ shoulders and shuffles in, just holding on.

After the interview, Zayn tunes out the man giving them instructions for tomorrow (he’ll just ask Liam or Niall later, probably) and sneaks glances at Louis that get less and less subtle as the minutes tick by. 

There’s a tightness to Louis’ jaw that doesn’t belong there. Zayn wants to stroke his brow until the furrow of worry disappears, wants to press a dry kiss just beneath his ear, wants to wrap him up in a warm hug and refuse to let go until every inch of tension has drained from his body.

Then again, Zayn wants a lot of things these days.

“Finally,” mutters Liam once they’re free to go. Zayn agrees silently, taking a moment to half-collapse against Liam, who holds him up just like he always does, warm and steady. “Thought they’d never finish.”

“Was long,” mumbles Zayn around a yawn, tumbling closer to nonsensical the more tired he gets. He reaches out a hand behind him, fluttering his fingers. “Lou,” he says plaintively, not bothering to lift his head from Liam’s shoulder.

Louis takes Zayn’s hand and interlocks their fingers. Even when he’s distant and locked up in his own head, he’s never denied Zayn this. “Do you have a ride?” asks Louis, now closer than he was before and probably angling to lean on Liam a bit, as well.

Zayn shrugs. “I was gonna call a car.”

“I can take you,” says Louis, and he sounds like he hasn’t slept in days but also like he won’t accept no for an answer.

Lucky for him, Zayn is terrible at saying no to Louis.

…

Somehow they both end up at Louis’ flat. It’s a combination of Zayn’s place being a bit out of the way and Louis admitting to not wanting to be alone every way but out loud, but it isn’t as if Zayn is going to complain. He’d woken up a bit on the drive back, less drowsy once they’d gotten on the road, and he’s glad for it.

“Tea?” asks Louis, already heading into the kitchen to make some.

Zayn debates it for a split second. “Yeah,” he decides, “thanks.” If this conversation shapes up to look the way he thinks it might, tea is definitely a good idea.

He walks toward the kitchen and leans on the doorframe, watching Louis potter around with his bare feet and oversized hoodie. The line of his shoulders is heavy with something Zayn can’t name. It’s getting dark out, long day finally coming to a close, and the light in the kitchen is starting to cast shadows across the floor as Louis finishes the tea.

Zayn accepts the mug, cupping it carefully in his hands like he’s scared to drop it. Louis barely looks at him, sitting in one of the wooden chairs by the table and slumping over, head cradled in the fold of his arms. This is the quietest he’s been in weeks. Unease curls through Zayn’s stomach. He sits across from Louis and tries not to let the silence get too dark

“You okay?” asks Zayn, and it’s a stupid question, but this is how they operate. Checking in, gentle questions, a nudge if it’s needed. Louis shifts in the chair, and then Zayn hears a sniffle, like Louis’ crying. He’s out of his seat in an instant, coming around the table, hand finding Louis’ back and rubbing little circles. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

Louis shakes his head, still hiding, and Zayn feels helpless. “Please,” Zayn says, and it could be begging depending on the light, “babe, you’re worrying me.” The endearment slips out like it always does: easy as breathing. 

Zayn moves his hand up, stroking his thumb against the nape of Louis’ neck. Louis shudders and then relaxes, like he’s a marionette and all of his strings have been cut. “I have to miss the twins’ birthday,” he says, voice thick, “again. Won’t even be in the country.” He lifts his head enough to meet Zayn’s eyes, and his cheeks are flushed and wet from the tears. “Is it horribly selfish of me to be mad?” There’s a tilt of rue to his tone, like he’d tried to turn it into a joke at the last second, but Zayn is well used to this brand of self-deprecation from Louis, feels his heart twist all the same.

Louis picks up his mug of tea and sips at it, unfolding his arms and looking down. The concealer from the interview is wearing thin and revealing the smudge of bruising under his tired eyes.

“It’s not selfish,” says Zayn, because he needs to get that bit out of the way. He goes to stand, feeling awkward hovering, but Louis grabs his wrist so tightly he’s close to cutting off the circulation. Zayn covers Louis’ hand with his own, steady pressure until Louis gentles his grip. “Okay,” and it’s barely more than a whisper, “I’m not moving, it’s okay.” He has more to say, but that sets Louis off and then he’s crying again, looking for all the world like he’s trying desperately to stop, like he wants to do it silently and alone or not at all. Zayn won’t let him be alone, though. Couldn’t imagine ever walking away from this boy.

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah? Find you some more comfortable clothes, and then we can talk a bit more, or just go to sleep, okay?”

Louis nods miserably, wiping at his eyes.

The moment they stop walking, Louis turns and buries his face into Zayn’s shoulder, and his silent tears turn into full body sobs. Zayn knows better than to think this is all because of a scheduling conflict, and he holds Louis tightly, murmuring in as soothing a tone as he can manage and pressing kisses to the crown of Louis’ head.

It takes Louis almost an hour to cry himself out. Ten minutes in, Zayn moves them to sit on the edge of the bed, and Louis burrows into his side like he’s scared Zayn will leave.

“You good?” asks Zayn, once the trembling has calmed, and it’s not the right question, exactly, but Louis understands anyway.

He nods, albeit shakily, running a hand through his hair and then over his face. “God,” he rasps, throat shot, “sorry. You didn’t have to- that was really embarrassing. I’m sorry.”

A lot of people are hard on Louis, but none of them are harder than he is on himself.

Zayn pauses, breathes, looks Louis right in the eyes. “Hey,” he says, tone gentle but stern, “you have nothing to apologize for. You have every right to be upset, okay?” He holds Louis’ gaze until he gets a nod, and then reaches forward to push Louis’ bangs off of his forehead. His entire face is flushed, and he looks run down and sleepy. “You should get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Louis presses his lips together like he’s thinking. “Stay?” he asks, looking hesitant, as if Zayn could ever say no to that.

“Of course. I’ll always stay.” It’s a shade too honest and definitely too cheesy, but Louis just whispers a quiet thank you and looks away. The lamp light is coloring everything in tones of gold, and Zayn can’t hide his love at all.

Louis clambers onto the bed, limbs clumsy with exhaustion, and Zayn pops into the bathroom to get him some water and a couple of painkillers. When he gets back, Louis is fast asleep, face smooth and breathing steady. Zayn thinks _I love you_ with a fierceness that burns so hot in his chest that it hurts.

He sets the cup and pills on the night table and presses a kiss to Louis’ temple before walking to the guest room.

Within five minutes, he’s asleep, too.

...

_3 years before_

Zayn says things without thinking, sometimes.

They’re rarely things that get him in trouble, thankfully, but they make him feel wide open, heart splayed out for anyone to see. If he had to pick the most earnest person he knows, he’d probably say Liam, but on days like this Zayn can give him a run for his money.

It happened like this: they’re on stage, and the lights are as blinding as they always are, and for whatever reason, Zayn feels warm.

Louis reads the twitter question with his usual amount of grandeur, waving an arm out like a game show host or an announcer at a circus. He turns to Zayn, then, eyes bright like he wants Zayn to play along, like he’s hoping for a killer joke. “What’s the one thing you can’t live without?”

And Zayn prides himself on being careful, thoughtful, put together. The spotlight isn’t always kind to him, and he knows it. He watches his words. Usually.

“You,” he hears himself say, mouth obviously not consulting his brain, and it’s maybe the truest thing he’s said in days.

Louis’ reaction is beautiful. His jaw softens, eyes widening the slightest bit, and he takes a step back like Zayn punched him in the stomach. “Me,” he asks, throwing out his hand, “or them?”

And Zayn thinks _in what world would I ever choose them?_ The fans are everything, but they’re not Louis. “You,” Zayn repeats, but it’s down to a whisper, and he tilts up his chin, opens up his body.

Louis falls into him like he’s still stunned, sweet and pliant and lovely, and Zayn mumbles, “always you,” right into his ear, feels the full body shudder, releases Louis with a friendly pat and the best smile he can manage when he feels so off-kilter.

It isn’t always a bad thing, when the honesty is dragged right out of him like this.

After the show, Louis is markedly less manic than normal. “Think you broke him,” mutters Niall, and Zayn would shoot him a sharp look but Niall only means well, and he’s smiling like he doesn’t mean it, anyway.

They get back to the hotel and Zayn only spends fifteen minutes in his own room messing with his laptop until he gets bored. He can’t remember when “I’m bored” turned into “I’m going to go find Louis,” but it’s one of hundreds of transitions that he never learned to pinpoint and he’s stopped questioning it by now. He doesn’t have a key to Louis’ room but he wanders over anyway.

It takes two knocks for the door to open. Louis is on the phone (with his mum, looks like) but he smiles when he sees Zayn and waves him in.

Zayn collapses on the bed and watches Louis talk, sees the hand gestures that are so familiar, hears the little phrases he’s stolen off of the boys. The little drawl of 'ummmm' while he’s thinking has Harry written all over it, and jiggling knee is half Louis’ energy and half Liam’s nervous tick. His laugh sounds like Niall, and then Louis’ voice drops and he says 'love you lots, give the girls a kiss for me' and that phrasing, that’s- that’s Zayn.

He barely recognizes himself in Louis, but at the same time, it’s so hard to miss.

Louis hangs up the phone and dumps himself next to Zayn, their limbs overlapping. Zayn can feel the points of heat where they’re touching and makes a conscious effort not to lean into it. He’s getting better at controlling himself lately.

He tries not to think about that night at Louis’ flat, the gentle words and red rimmed eyes, how he held Louis for hours and then had to let him go. This feels familiar. Sharing a bed is commonplace between any of the lads but maybe with Louis and Zayn it’s different. It’s that look on Louis’ face, thinks Zayn, almost unbearably frustrated. _Don’t look at me like that unless you mean it_ , he wants to say, but he doesn’t want to say it out loud.

“You said you couldn’t live without me,” says Louis casually, eyes sparking a bit, and Zayn wants to tell him _don’t ruin the moment_ but he can’t deny this boy anything. “Didn’t think you cared so much, Zayner.” He pretends to swoon, eyelashes fluttering ridiculously, and he’s messing around but it doesn’t make him any less lovely in the lamp light. “You’ll give a girl the wrong idea, there.”

Zayn rolls his eyes but keeps his tone gentle, has learned that the best way to deal with Louis is to be honest until he can’t help but feed it back. “I meant it, idiot.” That doesn’t mean, of course, that Zayn can’t call him out for being terrible.

Louis places a hand dramatically over his heart. “Aw, bless. You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?”

Exasperated, Zayn shifts them around until he has an arm around Louis, holding him close, and Louis feels small and warm and soft next to him. “I love you, yeah,” he says quietly, like a secret, and Louis stills.

There’s a half beat of silence and Zayn just breathes.

“I love you, too,” says Louis, low and sweet and that littlest bit more pliant, “obviously.”

Zayn shuts his eyes. It only hurts in a dull way, hearing him say that. It’s more of a warm flush, the good outweighing the bad. Zayn has had some time to get used to the idea that he’s in love with Louis, and almost as much time to get used to the idea that it would never work even if Louis did feel the same way. If Louis does feel the same way. 

There are contracts and paparazzi and Louis’ painstakingly crafted public persona. There are so many things Zayn could ruin, so he keeps it to himself.

This is enough, for now: Louis tucked up under his arm and telling Zayn he loves him. Zayn folds up the memory and tucks it in his pocket. Sleeps.

…

_2 years, 6 months before_

This is maybe the dirtiest club Zayn’s ever been in, and that’s saying something.

The air smells like smoke and alcohol, the lights are pulsing, the bass rings through his chest, and no one gives him a second glance. It’s also Zayn’s new favorite place.

He’d been dragged out by Louis, surprising absolutely no one, and at first he was hesitant to go out but now that he’s here he knows it was the right decision. He needed this, the hot thrum in his blood, the outlet, the sing of it. He tosses back a shot and welcomes the burn.

Louis is out in the crowd somewhere, probably pointing and yelling a lot and posing for pictures with people he’s never met. Zayn would put money on his white t-shirt being soaked through by now.

It’s like there’s a glowing ember in the center of his chest. The night gets a little fuzzy from there, meeting people and promptly forgetting their names, getting distracted halfway through some lackluster flirting with the bartender, and Zayn cuts himself off and then sets out to find Louis once he starts sobering up, thinking maybe it’d be best if they call it a night.

“Zayn!” shouts Louis, and he must be nearly sober, too, eyes bright instead of glassy. He’s sandwiched between a pair of blonde twins with gorgeous smiles, and Zayn doesn’t even feel guilty about dragging him away.

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Come have a smoke with me?” he asks, even though it isn’t really a question, and Louis nods quickly, one-two-three, pulse fast under Zayn’s fingers.

They duck through a side door into a dark alley, just as grimy and dirty as the rest of this place, and it’s blessedly empty. Zayn lights a cigarette and resists the urge to blow smoke into Louis’ face to watch it crinkle up. Instead, he leans back against the rough brick and shuts his eyes, head tilted toward the night sky. 

Louis bums a cig off of Zayn because he never carries around his own, and they smoke together in silence for a bit, night chill hitting the perfect balance between relieving and biting. Next to him, Louis is a little twitchy the way he always is, and Zayn has to duck his head to hide the sudden fond smile that had started to creep onto his face. Christ, but he needs to get a better handle on his reactions. It’s just that on the way here, they’d been in the back of the car and Zayn could’ve sworn Louis was stealing glances at him when he thought Zayn wasn’t looking, like he was thinking the same thing Zayn was, like maybe-

But he was obviously wrong, wasn’t he? Every time Zayn thinks things could change, there are blonde twins.

Or, no, that’s not right. It’s not that there are always blonde twins. It’s more like a potential spark that gets doused before it’s gotten the chance to burst into flame, or else it’s just Zayn’s heart playing tricks on him. But Louis looks and then he looks away, without fail, and Zayn is left waiting, and wanting, and wishing. 

“It’s fucking cold,” says Louis, scowling at the ground, and he’s not wrong. Here, tucked away from the cameras and lights, it’s like they’re more human, dirty and shivering just like everyone else.

Zayn’s not ready to leave, though, so he just shuffles until the outside of his shoe is pressed up against the outside of Louis’, and takes a long, slow drag. “‘S not so bad,” he returns quietly, looking up, and Louis is hopeless when it comes to dares, even just perceived ones.

Louis folds his arms and huffs, and his breath is white and misty in the air. “Ten minutes,” he bargains, probably trying to make it sound like he’s winning.

“Ten minutes,” agrees Zayn easily.

At the very end of the alleyway, just out of sight, they see a camera flash, and they both flinch. Louis is the first to recover, laughing shakily, and Zayn follows soon after. And then they’re both laughing, leaning against each other so they don’t fall over, and Zayn stubs out his cigarette and presses his face into Louis’ hair.

It takes them a bit to peter down into giggles, and a bit longer to finally settle, arms still around each other. Louis shifts closer into Zayn’s side, and Zayn has to make a conscious effort not to hold his breath.

“Are you still drunk?” asks Louis quietly.

Zayn pauses, thinks about it. “No,” he answers. “You?”

“No.”

Zayn scuffs the back of his shoe against the wall and extricates himself from Louis; or, he tries to, but then Louis grabs his wrist and they’re facing each other, that single point of contact like blooming heat. Louis looks torn, red flush high on his cheeks, teeth indenting his lower lip. He opens his mouth, then, like he’s about to say something, but he snaps it back shut without making a sound, eyes darting down to Zayn’s lips.

Zayn just waits him out. There’s no use indulging his own thoughts, and the frantic skip of his heartbeat will slow down if he gives it a chance to. He lets the maybe of it all shrivel up in the dirty air.

Louis is still holding onto his wrist. In the thin light of the alley, his eyes look pale and uncertain, like he’s trying to unravel all of Zayn’s secrets at once.

Zayn thinks _I would let him_ and fiddles with one of his bracelets.

They’ve been staring at each other for a stupid amount of time when Louis shuffles forward. It’s careful, hesitant, so unlike Louis that Zayn wants to ask if he’s okay; and he would, too, except that he’s terrified to break the moment. They’re so close together that Zayn could count Louis’ eyelashes individually if he wanted to. “Lou,” he whispers helplessly, trying to steady himself.

Louis looks as serious as Zayn has ever seen him when he says, “if I’m reading it wrong, or if you don’t want this, just- tell me to stop.”

Zayn stops breathing. Louis tilts his head up, closer, closer, and Zayn says nothing, heart about to beat out of his chest.

Louis has been staring at Zayn’s mouth all night, but that’s okay because Zayn has been staring at Louis’ for months.

And then they’re kissing, and it’s like a burst of light. Zayn lifts his hands up and then he can’t stop touching, hands at Louis’ waist pulling him in until they’re completely pressed together, a hand winding through Louis’ hair, tilting his jaw, gripping him at the nape of the neck. It’s all heat. They touch all the time, but not like this, never like this.

This is everything Zayn has wanted and nothing he can have. He finds himself thinking _this is the only time this will ever happen so you’d better enjoy it_ and he does, coaxing Louis’ lips into parting with his tongue, stroking a thumb over Louis’ cheekbone. He knows he’s giving himself away with every movement but he can’t help it.

When Louis finally pulls away, looking slightly dazed and thoroughly kissed, Zayn thinks he could cry. The secret’s out. The gig is up. If love were blood this alley would look like a crime scene and be dripping with Zayn’s DNA.

It’s like Louis can see it play across his face, though, because he softens immediately. “Okay?” he asks quietly, rubbing Zayn’s wrist right at the pulse point; they’re still standing right in each others’ space, and Zayn doesn’t trust his voice, so he just nods, isn’t sure how he looks right now except that it’s probably a bit wrecked.

He swallows down an apology because maybe this could be...he doesn’t want to let himself think it or say it out loud, but Zayn says, “I wanted it,” and it feels like a promise.

“I wanted it, too,” answers Louis, eyebrows furrowing adorably as if he’s a bit confused, and Zayn- he needs to know that Louis’ in this, that it wasn’t just a kiss, that it could be something real. Or if it isn’t, he needs to know that, too, before he sinks any further.

“I wanted _you_.”

This is maybe the bravest Zayn has ever been.

Louis sags like he’d been holding his breath, and he smiles brightly. “Zayn,” he says, relief warming his tone until it’s practically melting, “I want you.”

And then he’s leaning back in, much less carefully this time. They’ll need to talk about this tomorrow, thinks Zayn distantly. 

Louis pushes Zayn back up against the grotty brick wall and kisses him within an inch of his life, and then Zayn really isn’t thinking about very much at all.

…

_2 years before_

“Hey, have you seen Louis?” asks Zayn.

Liam rolls his eyes and smiles like he’d known Zayn would ask that, and Zayn refuses to give him the satisfaction of a blush. This thing between them isn’t new, not really - they’d stumbled at first, maybe, trying to find their footing, but it’s been three months of a real, actual, functional relationship, and Zayn couldn’t be happier. “Think he said he was going to the roof,” says Liam, finally, and Zayn thanks him before flitting off to find the stairs.

It’s summer in California, which means that, even at midnight, it never gets cold. Zayn doesn’t even need a jacket as he steps out of the stairway, which is a nice change, if a little strange.

“Hey,” he says to Louis’ back.

“Hi,” says Louis to the horizon, hugging his knees.

Up here, everything is smudged and gray. Zayn walks over to Louis, sits down next to him and lets their arms bump together. Louis tips his head until it’s resting on Zayn’s shoulder. “Why’re you out here by yourself?”

Louis shrugs. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” teases Zayn, but there’s no sting. He wraps an arm around Louis’ shoulders and pulls him closer, and Louis finally relaxes into it.

Louis hums before hiding his face a bit more. “Album comes out next week,” he says, voice small and muted in tones of blue. “My name’s next to every song.”

Zayn smiles, warm and soft. “‘M proud of you,” he replies, because he his and because Louis needs to hear it, even if he won’t admit he does.

“Shut up,” answers Louis immediately. And then, quieter, “What if they hate it?”

Every time Louis gets like this, Zayn has to fight the urge to seek out and kill anyone who ever made him feel like less than he is. “They’re not gonna hate it,” says Zayn, instead of don’t you know that you deserve the entire world? - not because it isn’t true, but because Louis wouldn’t listen, anyway.

Louis huffs. “You don’t know that.”

“They liked Fireproof,” points out Zayn, perfectly reasonably, “and Steal My Girl, and Night Changes. What’s to say they won’t like the rest of it?”

A loaded silence, and then, “What if, though?”

“Niall’d go solo, probably.”

That coaxes a laugh out of Louis. “He wouldn’t dare.”

Zayn laughs, too, shaking his head. “Let’s go inside, yeah? And stop worrying so much.”

“Says you,” Louis fires back, and he kind of has a point, but Zayn jostles him as payback anyway, trying to sneak in an elbow to jab at Louis’ side. 

All said, it takes them another ten minutes to get to Zayn’s room, and they fall asleep fully clothed and tangled up in each other.

…

The album hits number one in 67 countries.

Louis kisses Zayn breathless until they have to stop because they’re both smiling so hard.

…

_1 year, 6 months before_

“You know, we had a bet,” says Harry, apropos of nothing.

Zayn kicks his feet up, tilting his head back until he can see Harry behind him. “A bet for what?”

Harry grins, wolfish, dimples popping in his cheeks. “For when you and Louis would finally get together.”

There’s a moment where Zayn can’t do much more than let his jaw drop. “You’re joking,” he says, flat, aiming for completely unamused. He doesn’t think he quite hits it, judging by the sparkle in Harry’s eye, but Zayn was never any good at faking it. “Who won, then?”

Harry’s smile grows. “No one. I think Niall was the last one still in it, but the two of you took ages.”

“Why am I friends with any of you?” moans Zayn.

Harry laughs, joyous, “You love us.”

And, God help him, but he does.

…

_1 year before_

Zayn can’t tell if they’re fighting or not.

He hasn’t seen Louis at all outside of fan pictures in nearly a week. Normally, that wouldn’t be enough to concern him - their schedules are hectic, and they try to spend time together but it’s hard when they’re on break - but their last text message was four days ago, too, and it’s making Zayn antsy.

He prides himself in being the chill one, the calm one, the one that goes with the flow, but something feels off kilter and he’s scared. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve fought (living out of someone’s pocket for 9 months out of the year does that, sometimes), but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

 _are we okay?_ he sends Louis, and immediately tugs his lower lip into his mouth. He shouldn’t be nervous to text his own boyfriend.

The reply comes an hour later. _I don’t know, are we?_

Zayn stomach turns over. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but he can practically hear it in Louis’ voice, condescending, angry tone and all. Louis, he types, and then pauses, fingers hovering over the screen. He mutters a bit to himself before continuing. _Can I call you?_

This time, Louis doesn’t answer.

“Damn it,” says Zayn to the empty room.

He calls Louis anyway and gets the answering machine. He hangs up and tries again, and then again, starting to get angry. This answers it, then. They are fighting, and Zayn feels a little sick with it.

He tries Liam, instead, and Liam, bless him, picks up on the second ring. “Hey, Zayn!” he says cheerfully, “How’s your break? Your family doing well?”

“Yeah, all good. Hey, do you know why Louis might be mad at me?” It’s a little clumsy and a lot blunt, but at least it gets to the point.

“You guys are fighting?” asks Liam, and he sounds a bit devastated. Zayn wants to immediately take it back, if only because he’s always been a bit soft for Liam, but he doesn’t think he could pull it off. “I didn’t know.”

That answers that, then. “Apparently we are. I don’t know what I did, but he won’t talk to me.”

“I’m sorry, mate, I really can’t help you.” Liam sounds like he’s pouting on the other end of the line.

Zayn, frazzled, finishes up the call with Liam and then starts pacing the room, wracking his brain for things he might have done that could’ve made Louis upset with him. He comes up with nothing.

Finally, he decides to text Louis again. _I can’t read your mind. Please just tell me why you’re upset._

They don’t usually talk like this, in full sentences with perfect grammar and punctuation. Zayn stumbles into his bed and squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come. 

The next morning, he wakes up with his phone still clutched in his hand.

…

It ends up being three days of passive aggression and dull hurt, and it culminates into Zayn yelling into Louis’ voicemail, leaving message after message full of snide remarks and phrases mucked up with tears. It’s harsh and too much and Zayn regrets it immediately, frustration tempering into exhaustion. He finishes the last one with an apology. “You didn’t deserve that,” he says into the phone, “I’m sorry, I just wish you’d talk to me. Please, just- call me.”

There’s no answer. The vice in Zayn’s chest constricts that little bit tighter.

…

“Zayn! Open the door!”

Zayn frowns, rubbing at his bleary eyes. This wouldn’t be the first time this week he’s dreamed up that voice, but it doesn’t hurt any less. He just wants to know what he did wrong so he can fix it, and the two of them can apologize to each other, and then Zayn can tell Louis about this brilliant idea had to tie all of Harry’s headscarves together end to end.

He moans sadly, rolling over, when he hears banging. “Zayn! Come on!”

And that’s- that’s Louis. That’s Louis, and he’s here.

Ideally, Zayn wouldn’t be just in his boxers for this conversation, but Louis’ seen him at his worst and he still kissed him so Zayn isn’t too worried about it right now. He slides on his glasses, fumbling his way out of bed.

“Zayn, let me in! Hey-”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he interrupts, only a bit crabby at having been woken up. Mostly he’s just nervous and relieved, eager for a chance to finally hash this all out and put it behind them. Surely Louis wouldn’t be here if he meant to break them up. Surely he wouldn’t sound so desperate. Surely he wouldn’t-

Zayn swings the door open. And there’s Louis.

He looks about as awful as Zayn feels, dark circles under his eyes, shoulders hunched, wearing that ratty old pair of joggers Zayn keeps trying to get him to throw out. “Hi,” says Zayn.

Louis launches himself forward, like once the silence had been broken he couldn’t stop himself, and Zayn ends up with an armful of trembling boy. They’re clutching each other tightly in the doorway. “I’m so sorry,” says Louis, burying his face in Zayn’s shoulder, sounding like he’s on the verge of tears, “I’m so, so sorry.”

Zayn shushes him, running a hand down his back - it’s instinct, like muscle memory, to calm Louis when he’s distressed. “Come inside, we can talk.”

They get settled on the worn couch, almost touching but not quite, and Zayn shoots Louis a look like _talk_ and Louis looks back like _yeah, okay._

“I had a shit week,” Louis starts, and Zayn doesn’t say _join the club_ , but it must read on his face, because Louis grimaces apologetically before continuing. “I saw, like- you know the rags are all talking about us? Something leaked, or they saw us doing something, or...it doesn’t matter, but we made the front page of the Sun.”

“Yeah,” says Zayn quietly, “I saw.”

Louis nods to himself. “Right. We said we wouldn’t, uh…” he bites at his lip, hands twitching uselessly in his lap, “...we said we weren’t going to hide. And we haven’t. But it just got to me, I guess, when I saw what the papers were saying, and then none of the girls’ breaks matched up with mine so I barely got to see them, and I was upset. And I took it out on you, and it wasn’t fair at all. God, I royally fucked up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” says Zayn, because he did. “You know you could’ve just talked to me, right? I want to be there for you, but I can’t if you don’t let me.” He’s so, so tired.

Louis groans into his hands. “I’ve been such an idiot.”

“Yeah,” says Zayn, and it feels like he’s repeating himself at this point. “You’re not upset with me, then?” He has to check. He’s a little mad at Louis but he needs it affirmed that he did nothing wrong.

Louis, for his part, looks appropriately aghast. “No,” he rushes, tripping over his words, “no, no, you’re fine, you’re perfect. I was just being-”

“A proper knob,” interrupts Zayn, and the queasy tilt in his stomach hasn’t completely dissipated, but Louis’ surprised bark of laughter is warmly familiar and it’s like he can feel things coming loose in his chest.

Louis rubs at his tired eyes and sends Zayn a weak smile. “Yeah, that.”

There’s a residual feeling of wanting to slap Louis in the face, but it’s fading, just like the urge to slam the door in his face faded. “You look like you need some rest.”

Louis nods, still not quite meeting Zayn’s eyes. “I can go.”

And that’s not at all what Zayn meant. “No,” he says, across the distance between them, “I mean you can go sleep in my bed, and we can talk a bit more when you wake up.”

Zayn swallows as he says it, suddenly a bit fidgety - that’s 100% Louis’ fault, to be perfectly honest, and it’s not the only thing Zayn’s picked up from him - because he remembers thinking that Louis had only showed up to break up with him properly and his body hasn’t burned out all of the fear or anxiety yet.

“Thank you,” says Louis, and it sounds like more than _thanks for offering your bed to me._

“Sure,” says Zayn, and it means more than _you’re welcome._

…

When Louis wakes up, it’s because Zayn is playing with his hair. “Hey,” he croaks, and then stills completely, like he only just remembered why he’s here in the first place. He scrubs at his eyes like a kid, face scrunched up and squinty, and his mouth is twisted up nervously.

“Hey,” says Zayn softly, all the love he has for this boy filling him right up and spilling over. 

It takes them three hours to work it all out, to listen to each other properly, but they manage it.

“That was easier than I thought it would be,” jokes Louis, when it’s all said and done, hesitant like he’s not sure they’re allowed to laugh about it yet.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Would’ve been easier if you’d just talked to me,” he answers, but there’s no heat in it. It’s quiet for a bit, and this might be Zayn’s favorite Louis: warm and soft, tucked up right under his arm. “You can tell me anything, y’know.” It’s not the first time he’s said it today, but that doesn’t mean he means it any less than he did the first time, or the second, or the third.

“I know. It’s why I love you, innit?”

Zayn snorts. “Thought you loved me for my, what was it, ‘gorgeous cheekbones.’” His Louis impression is, as usual, terrible, but Louis just laughs and cuddles in closer.

“Nah,” he says, “that’s Harry. I’m only in it for your bed. ‘S comfy.”

“You’re a menace,” says Zayn fondly, lets _it’s why I love you_ settle gently in the air, coloring the whole room soft.

…

_6 months before_

Zayn’s little cousins adore Louis.

Zayn could’ve guessed this, of course, but seeing him with them is like a punch to the gut. Louis lights up around kids, pulls out all of his silly voices and ridiculous games, and the children eat it right up, giggling and clapping and hanging all over him. He lets them, and for almost two hours, every time Zayn sees Louis there’s a different kid getting a piggyback.

“He’s going to be a wonderful father someday,” says Zayn’s aunt conspiratorially, elbowing Zayn’s side not-so-subtly. “They love him to bits. That’s the kind of thing you can’t teach. You picked a good one, Zayn.”

Zayn smiles and is certain he looks hopelessly lovesick. “I did.”

They’re young, far too young, but he still sees it in his head sometimes. Zayn and Louis in a house with a proper garage and a garden, kids running around and causing trouble. He thinks he’d have a terrible time denying them anything. He imagines shepherding them to school, trying to teach them manners, family dinners and game nights and karaoke. 

He’s jolted out of the daydream when Louis shouts his name. “Look at this!” he yells from across the room, so Zayn looks.

Louis has one of Zayn’s youngest cousins next to him, and she’s smiling so widely her cheeks must hurt. A zing of happiness zips through Zayn’s chest, like it’s contagious, as Louis counts them off.

They stumble through a silly dance routine that Louis must have made up on the spot, complete with his trademark moves, ones Zayn hasn’t seen since the inception of the band years ago. When they finish, Zayn claps and cheers enthusiastically, thinks _he’ll make a good father someday_ and feels hot all over.

Louis walks over, still grinning. “So?” he asks, like Zayn didn’t just practically yell his lungs out cheering.

“Not bad,” shrugs Zayn, but he’s smiling widely as he says it, still thinking about Louis and kids and a life that’s years away.

Louis presses a sweet kiss to Zayn’s lips, eyes sparkling like he’s thinking the exact same thing.

…

_the day of_

They’re at Zayn’s favorite club in London, the grimy one that’s hot and dirty and perfect, where no one cares about who they are or what they’ve done, and Louis has coaxed Zayn out on the dance floor. Neither of them are plastered or even tipsy, really, because they have a show tomorrow and decided to be responsible, for once; as a result, Zayn’s movements are a little awkward and jerky. After all this time he still can’t dance sober. He’s really only any good when he’s high, anyway.

Louis, on the other hand, self-identified terrible dancer as he may be, is swaying easily with the music, swiveling his hips and laughing every few seconds. He’d been the one that insisted they go out tonight, looking at Zayn with big eyes and pulling him off of the bed by his hands. “Come on, please? We haven’t gone out in ages,” he’d said, and it’s been months of this but Zayn is still so helpless to deny this boy anything.

So he said yes, put on his tightest jeans and rubbed a bit of kohl near his lashes, and now they’re here.

Across from him, Louis is sweaty and focused and smiling and _gorgeous_. 

They dance to a few more songs before Zayn starts to get tired. Before he can say anything, Louis jerks his chin in the direction of the door. “Outside?” he asks; the sound gets swallowed up in the noise of the club but Zayn can read it off his lips. Zayn nods, and the two of them navigate through the mass of bodies to the exit.

It’s the same grungy alley they were in over a year ago, when Louis broke Zayn’s heart and put it back together better, softer, brighter. 

Zayn leans his head back against the wall and breathes slowly - the fresh air feels like a miracle after the stifling heat of the club. “You’d think we’d be going swankier places since we’re, like, international superstars,” jokes Zayn. “I think I stepped on an unwrapped condom in there.”

Louis shudders and pulls a face. “That’s disgusting.” There’s a pause before he continues. “I mean, we could go places that are more posh, I guess. If we wanted to.”

Zayn pretends to think about it. “Nah,” he ultimately says, smiling, “this is good. Disgusting, but good.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Louis relax a bit, like he just let out a breath he’d been holding. 

Up above, the night is as clear as it ever is in London, and the stars are twinkling brightly. “I love you,” says Louis, and that’s...

It isn’t strange, really, because they’ve been saying I love you since the X-factor. When the status of their relationship changed, they didn’t even really make a distinction. They love each other. It’s that simple.

Louis doesn’t usually say it unprovoked, is all. Zayn’s heart stutters in his chest. “I love you, too,” he answers without missing a beat, but he’s confused. Far be it from him to question it, but Zayn usually has to tug it out of him a bit. (Not that it takes much, mind. This is just a little different, is all.) 

“I wanted-” starts Louis, and then he cuts himself off, frustrated. Zayn turns to face him properly, and cups Louis’ hand in his cheek, thumbs at the little wrinkles forming on his forehead. “I wanted it to be perfect, like. This is where we kissed for the first time, remember?”

Zayn laughs a little bit. “Yeah, I remember.” As if he could forget.

Louis cracks a smile at that, looking down at his shoes and back up, eyelashes fluttering the way they do when he’s nervous. “I know we’re young,” he says, and his eyes are so, so blue. “And I know I can be a twat, and difficult, and loud. But you make me better. We make each other better. I know it’s stupid, but the other day you went round to the corner market, and I think you were gone about five minutes when I started missing you.” That startles a laugh out of Zayn, picturing Louis staring wistfully out the window of their flat while Zayn buys groceries.

“Romantic,” he teases, and Louis points a finger at him in warning.

“Hush,” he says, “I’m naturally very romantic.”

Zayn lifts his hands in faux surrender, trying to contain his snickers. “Of course you are. Most romantic person in England, maybe even all of Europe.”

Louis splutters, and then they’re both laughing so hard they have to hunch over, holding each other up. “See?” argues Louis, once they’ve mostly recovered, “This is what I’m talking about, you’re so bloody fun, I don’t want to do this with anyone else.”

Zayn’s smile tempers into something softer, sweeter. “Same,” he answers, and it isn’t much but it’s also everything.

“God, okay,” says Louis, starting to fidget again, “let me just- okay, here we go.”

And then he gets down on one knee.

Before he can get a single word out, Zayn is laughing again to the point that his stomach starts to hurt. Louis looks like he’s going to have an aneurysm, lips twitching like he maybe wants to laugh along, but he’s not sure if he’s the butt of the joke.

“Louis,” wheezes Zayn, digging into his own pocket, “you absolute moron.” He pulls the little velvet box out of his jeans from where it’d been burning a hole in them and opens it up, revealing a sleek, silver ring. He imagines Louis planning this, calling up his father maybe, telling the other boys and getting their advice. 

He brought them here on purpose, marvels Zayn, back to the place they had their first kiss. Zayn loves him so, so much, and he’s still giggling when he says, “Lou, of course I’ll marry you.”

…

_1 year, 6 months later_

Louis is a wreck.

Or, well, that’s what Niall tells Zayn while he helps him do up his tie. “Funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” laughs Niall, “you’re not planning on leaving him at the altar, are ya? Don’t reckon he’d take it too well.”

Zayn barks out a disbelieving laugh. “I’m not leaving him at the altar,” he protests, “why would I do that? Agreed to marry him, didn’t I?” The last part comes out a bit prickly, but he can’t help it. Apparently he also gets defensive for hypothetical Louis. No surprises there.

Niall just grins good-naturedly, shaking his head like he knows exactly what Zayn’s thinking. “Just checking,” he says, but it sounds like _just teasing_ , and either version is okay, really.

“I’m sure about this,” says Zayn, because he feels obligated to defend himself. “Don’t think I’ve ever been so sure about anything before.” It comes out more honest than he’d intended, but if he can’t be honest about how much he loves Louis at their own wedding, then when can he?

Niall finishes up the tie and pats him on the chest. “I know, mate.”

Zayn nods, and the two of them walk outside. It’s a gorgeous day, sun cutting through the light breeze, clouds white and puffy in the sky. Zayn feels a little shiver of anticipation crawl up his spine. He’s going to leave here married. He and Louis are going to go back to their flat and in a week they’ll go on their honeymoon, and they’re going to be by each others’ sides for the rest of their lives. Zayn has thought about this before, of course, but it’s still a lot to take in.

He’s about to go find his mum when he feels someone hug him tightly from behind, practically lifting him up off of the ground. “Missed you.”

Zayn laughs, leaning into it. “Wouldn’t have to if you weren’t in LA all the time.”

He can practically hear Harry pouting. “It’s nice there. People wake up to watch the sunrise, and do yoga, and eat healthy things.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” answers Zayn, and he isn’t even joking.

Harry hums. “You ready?” Everyone keeps asking him that, as if he’s suddenly going to get cold feet.

“I’ve been ready for ages,” he answers truthfully. “Just want to get on with it so we can be married.”

Zayn extricates himself from Harry’s grip so they can properly face each other, both smiling, and there’s a beat of quiet before Harry says, “I’m really happy for the two of you.”

“Thanks,” says Zayn, trying not to smile. His cheeks already hurt and the ceremony hasn’t even started yet. Heaven knows how he’s going to make it to the end.

…

Hours pass, and it’s mostly just a lot of people congratulating Zayn. Liam confirms that Louis is, in fact, very nervous, and that should maybe make Zayn nervous, as well, but it’s just funny. Louis had been teasing him for weeks that Zayn would be the one getting over emotional at the wedding, and it’s always fun to turn Louis’ jokes back on him.

Finally, it’s time to walk down the aisle. They’d agreed to both come in from the sides and meet in the middle, mostly because their argument about who would wait at the altar got derailed by snogging the first three times.

So it’s here, in front of family and friends and all of the people Zayn loves, that he sees Louis for the first time that day.

And god, but is he beautiful. His cheeks are red with a hectic flush, like he’s been worked up all day, and his suit is sharp and clean and fits him like a glove. His hair is tossed artfully, and Zayn’s breath catches in his throat.

He gets to keep this boy. He gets to keep him forever.

When they meet in the middle, Louis’ eyes are shiny.

The proceedings go as planned until they get to the vows, because Zayn goes to unfold his crinkly notes and Louis holds his hand up to stop him. “I have to go first,” he says, voice a little wobbly, “because I probably won’t be able to keep it together once you’ve finished, and I’d like to get through all of my vows, please.” It’s worded like a request, but Zayn knows Louis, knows how he phrases it like a joke but it still kills him to admit it, so he just nods.

Louis takes a shaky breath and pulls out his own paper, which is torn at the edges. It looks old and loved at the creases, like Louis has practiced unfolding it a million times in preparation for this. Zayn thinks his heart must be bursting with love for this boy. “Zayn,” he starts, steadying himself with another breath, “you know me better than anyone, and you still love me, and I am so lucky. I promise to wake you up nicely in the mornings, even when I feel like dumping a bucket of water on you. I promise to hold your hand when you’re stressed because it makes you feel better, even if you won’t admit it.” Zayn laughs a watery laugh at that, because he’s stubborn and it’s true. Louis shoots him a blinding grin and continues. “I promise to stick up for you. I promise to love you so well you’ll never want to get rid of me. And I promise- oh, shit,” he despairs, sniffling, just as he starts to cry. “Promised myself I wouldn’t cry, damn it, bloody hell,” and then, “sorry, Mum.” Everyone laughs, and Louis looks pleased even as he wipes at his eyes. “Okay. I'm okay. I promise we’ll always be best friends. Forever and ever,” he finishes, folding his notes back up, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint Zayn has not to rush forward and kiss him.

As it is, he needs to pull himself together and read his own vows. He swallows against the lump of emotion in his throat, and pulls out his papers.

“Louis,” he says, voice just barely shaking, “You were my boyfriend, and now you’re my fiancé, and after this you’re going to be my husband, but before any of that, you were my partner in crime. Thank you for dragging me out of my shell, even though I fought you a bit on it. You’re my favorite person in the whole world.” Across from him, Louis’ face is twisting up the way it does when he’s holding back tears, and his mouth is shaking a bit. “I vow to never let you forget how special, and kind, and strong you are. I vow to do silly things with you, even if I get a bit embarrassed. I vow to pretend I don’t see you crying when we watch romantic comedies,” here Louis mouths _you suck_ , but his eyes are sparkling, “and I’ll always kiss you after. I love you. A lot. And I’m so excited to spend the rest of my life with you.”

There are tears streaming silently down Louis’ cheeks, and Zayn wipes them away with his thumbs. He isn’t sure he’s allowed to touch yet, but he does it anyway.

Louis cries through the rest of the ceremony, through Harry’s sniffling on Liam’s shoulder, through the _I do_ ’s, and his face is wet when they finally get to kiss each other. “I love you,” says Zayn, as they pull back, “love you so much.”

“I love you, too, husband,” says Louis, laughing through his tears, and then people are rushing up to congratulate them and they’re more or less pulled apart.

…

They’re terribly clingy for the rest of the evening, refusing to be out of arm’s reach of each other until Niall (who must have cleaned his face after Louis smashed cake into it) steps in and says, “as best man, I’d like a dance with the groom.”

Louis and Zayn both laugh, mostly because they don’t have a best man - it didn’t feel fair, in the end, and they’d both probably end up arguing over Niall anyway - and they have no idea which groom Niall is referring to. Apparently, they take too long to say anything, so Niall answers the question for them and drags Louis away to dance.

Zayn watches them for a bit, hopelessly endeared, and then Liam grabs his hand and shoots him the saddest puppy dog eyes in the world.

“You’re a menace, Payne,” he grumbles, but he lets himself be led to the dance floor all the same.

…

Later, much later, when the night is full to the brim with stars and everyone who wanted to congratulate them has done it, a quiet energy settles over the venue.

“Last dance,” says Zayn.

Louis squeezes their linked hands. “So it is.” He stands up, and Zayn lets himself be pulled.

Together, they walk to the middle of the dance floor, and the people part for them like it’s been rehearsed. The opening chords of the song start playing, and Zayn smiles shyly, remembering. Louis tugs him close and Zayn nudges himself even closer until his arms are around Louis’ shoulders and their foreheads are pressed together. Here, swaying in the starlight, Louis is the only other person in the entire world.

The song plays, sweet and quiet, and Willie Nelson asks, _will you still love me tomorrow?_

Yes, thinks Zayn. Today, and tomorrow, and always. Forever and ever.


End file.
